


that unfamiliar thing called trust

by downtheroadandupthehill



Series: getting fucked in lingerie [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Dirty Talk, M/M, Porn Without Plot, subjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 20:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his arms pulled taut above his head, and soft, red rope twisted around his wrists, secured at the end to the headboard of their bed—well, it’s hard to do much of anything, but he arches up to push his neck harder against Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire’s answering exhale is almost as shaky as Enjolras’s is, as he shifts his hand, wraps all four fingers and his thumb around Enjolras’s neck, and squeezes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that unfamiliar thing called trust

Grantaire begins tentatively, two fingers pressed against the front of Enjolras’s stubble-burnt neck, just above the hollow in his collarbone, shiny with sweat and saliva. Enjolras glares up at him, meets Grantaire’s cautious, watchful gaze. This is  _new_ , and Enjolras knows that the other man is overly careful to avoid hurting him. Well, hurting him  _too much_ , anyway.

His breath comes in sharper—he has to struggle for it, and his inhalations are louder in his ears.

With his arms pulled taut above his head, and soft, red rope twisted around his wrists, secured at the end to the headboard of their bed—well, it’s hard to do much of anything, but he arches up to push his neck harder against Grantaire’s fingers. Grantaire’s answering exhale is almost as shaky as Enjolras’s is, as he shifts his hand, wraps all four fingers and his thumb around Enjolras’s neck, and squeezes.

Enjolras closes his eyes. He’d sigh in pleasure, if he could, if the sound could manage to make it through his lungs. He imagines bruises blooming like violets along the sides of his neck—feels the drip of his own cock on his stomach. Grantaire hasn’t even touched him there yet, and Enjolras wonders if he’ll even have to.

“Do you like that?” Grantaire asks him. He’s half-dominant, taunting the way he knows that Enjolras likes, but full of genuine concern, too.

Enjolras opens his eyes to see Grantaire knelt beside him on the bed, not touching him at all save for the hand around his neck. Green and purple spots obscure his vision, but he can make out Grantaire, anyway—red-bitten lips upturned in an uncertain smile, hair awry and tangled from where Enjolras had his fists in it, earlier, before Grantaire had straddled him, pinned him down, and tied his wrists. Enjolras hadn’t exactly put up much of a fight.

He can’t speak to answer Grantaire’s question, and he’s afraid that if he nods his head he’ll lose that delicious, sharp-edged pressure pushing down against his windpipe. He can hear the rattle of his breath, louder now, and the pounding of his pulse. So instead he bucks his hips into the air, to show Grantaire just  _how much he likes this_ , and how much he might like  _this_  combined with  _that_ _,_  too.

And Grantaire laughs at him in the way that Enjolras hates (loves), the sort of sneering laugh that brings a humiliated flush to Enjolras’s cheeks and usually leaves him a weeping, begging mess in the end.

“Slut. I bet I could make you come from this alone if I wanted to, couldn’t I?” Grantaire groans, and he eases his grip on Enjolras’s neck to focus more on his own arousal, wrapping a hand around his own cock to tug at it once, twice.

Enjolras can only try to whimper, bucks his hips again, this time involuntarily. Seeking heat, seeking friction—fuck. Fucking anything.

He takes a deep breath and air floods his lungs as Grantaire releases his neck entirely, leans down to scrape teeth against his racing, aching pulse. Then he moves down the bed, dragging his calloused palms and blunt fingernails over Enjolras’s nipples, the straining muscles in his torso. But instead of moving in between Enjolras’s legs, Grantaire straddles him, and looks awfully smug about it, too.

“Or perhaps, while I have you at my leisure, I’ll allow you the honor of doing the fucking. In a manner of speaking.” He grinds down against Enjolras. “How would you like that?”

“Fuck.” It’s all Enjolras can manage, with Grantaire rubbing against him like that.

“I’m glad you agree.” Grantaire smirks, reaches for the lube on the bedside table to open himself for Enjolras. It’s not as if they’ve never done this, but they don’t do it often, either. Or maybe not often  _enough_ , Enjolras thinks, torn between looking at the movement of Grantaire’s fingers inside himself, twisting and stretching—and watching the contortions of his face, his eyes fluttering open and closed and biting down on his lower lip as he brings himself pleasure.

“I’m so fucking tight for you.” Grantaire laughs again, that same wicked, sinful laugh, but there’s some strain in it now, as he withdraws his fingers, still wet with lube. He braces himself with one hand on Enjolras’s chest as he lowers himself onto Enjolras’s cock, using his other hand for a guide.

“Fucking christ,” he moans, when he is fully seated.

“Fucking  _move_ ,” Enjolras hisses back. With his hands tied above him and Grantaire’s weight on his pelvis, he certainly can’t do the moving. And Grantaire is tight—he wasn’t fucking lying—and hot and  _tight_ , holy fucking god, why won’t the man just  _move_?

“I ought to punish you for that filthy, demanding mouth of yours.” But Grantaire starts to rock his hips, takes his cock in his hand—because they both know that this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly—because yes, it’s pretty fucking clear that they don’t do  _this_  often enough and fuck—

Grantaire presses down on Enjolras’s neck again, with less pressure than before but still enough to hurt just how he likes.

“I want you to come for me,” Grantaire demands in a gasp, and rocks faster on Enjolras, rocks faster into his own hand. “Come for me.”

Enjolras does, in an arch of his back and a cry of Grantaire’s name, shuddering and pulling hard against the rope holding him down. He feels Grantaire’s hand leave his neck again, and Grantaire follows him over the precipice just after, coming in pale streaks across Enjolras’s stomach. His muscles relax visibly, and he looks as though he’d like to collapse right then and there, though thankfully Grantaire is slightly more considerate than that.

He quickly undoes the knot that binds Enjolras to the bed, massages the feeling back into his hands—he brings Enjolras’s wrists to his lips, kisses the inside of each one as he climbs off of Enjolras and lays down beside him. “Is your neck okay?”

“Yeah.” His voice is still hoarse. Enjolras licks his lips, curls into Grantaire’s side. The other man slings an arm around his waist to pull him closer.

“You’ll have to wear scarves or turtlenecks for at least a week,” Grantaire points out.

“Good thing it’s winter.”

Grantaire is tentative, fingers batting gently against the grooves in Enjolras’s ribcage. It means he’s stressed out, wants a cigarette. “Do you need anything?” he asks.

“No.” Enjolras’s sigh is almost a purr of contentment against Grantaire’s bare skin. “Just this.”

“As long as we get a shower before we go to bed, sleepyhead.” Grantaire is chiding, but fond, and his fingers settle their frantic, nervous movement.

“I trust you, you know,” Enjolras murmurs. “Even with something as vital as my air supply. So you don’t need to do that.”

That: the stressing, the worrying, the fretting that comes about every time Enjolras has something new he’s read about, that he’d like to try in bed.

“I trust you,” he says again, for emphasis, although emphasis is fairly difficult to achieve when one is already half-asleep.

Grantaire is unintelligible as he whispers something, probably something stupidly inadequate for what Enjolras has just told him, into his boyfriend’s hair.


End file.
